


Midnight to the North of Her

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning, Slice of Life, Val Royeaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:38:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "We will not abandon her in her hour of need. Go, speak to Cassandra. Learn her heart, as I have learned it."The Left and Right Hands come to know one another better in the early days of their service.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coveredinfeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/gifts).



> I mean, how could I not write Cassandra punching somebody. Thanks to my nitpicker. You know who you are.

The Divine's personal residence, at the heart of the heart of the Grand Cathedral, was prepared weather any emergency. It had its own kitchens and larder, and a broad, airy garden at the center for the growing of its own food. Beatrix had grown roses, instead, which had been maintained lovingly by some Chantry sister, even after she grew too frail and forgetful to tend them herself.

Most Holy was not in her garden, that evening, though Leliana paused there to take in the the last of the blue-and-gold day. She was not in the library, where her personal collection from Valence still sat in its crates, prepared to take its rightful place on the shelves. She was not in the formal audience room, either, though a matched pair of Revered Mothers were hard at work answering Justinia's correspondence. The Knights-Divine stood at attention as she passed. It had been made amply clear to them, by way of a demonstration with a long knife, that Leliana was just as prepared—if not more—to give her life for Most Holy as any of them, and that she was, in short, to have the run of the place.

Years of planning, for this moment! Leliana was dizzy with it. To walk through the innermost halls of the Grand Cathedral, not as a worshipper, or a petitioner, but as Left Hand to the greatest power in all Thedas, to command the ears that listened in Chantries and boudoirs across Thedas, and to command the silent knives that would defend the faith. It was more than Marjolaine could have dreamt of, when she'd molded Leliana: Marjolaine, who could not conceive of serving any calling higher than Marjolaine.

The Knight at the door to Justinia's personal bedchamber gave a faint nod as Leliana passed, to say, She's in there, sister. Alessandra, her name was—a burly Antivan farmgirl, a master of the broadsword, as all the Knights-Divine were masters of some weapon or another. (Leliana was a perfectly adequate shot, but made a point of never practicing on their archery range.) She had fine green eyes, and was entirely too glad to tell Leliana what was being said of Justinia in the barracks. Leliana favored her with a grateful smile, and stopped to compose herself. She would need steadiness of purpose, for what she had come to say.

"I can't see the harm in granting Seeker Pentaghast her request," Leliana said, upon entering, before Justinia could greet her. "She served Beatrix, not the Sunburst Throne. Promote one of Knights-Divine to your Right Hand in her stead."

Her Perfection considered Leliana's words. She had changed from her formal vestments into a plain grey robe, and she did not seem troubled by the intrusion. It was enough to make one feel silly. "Whom did you have in mind?" Justinia asked.

"Any of them," said Leliana, even as she knew, from the bland look on Justinia's face, that the answer would be no. Still it behooved her to try, for her sake, as much as Seeker Pentaghast's: "She does not want to serve you. Why hold a snake to your bosom when you do not need to? Your guards, at least, know when to hold their tongues."

"The Seeker has criticized me, and to my face. This is true, yes," Justinia said, very mildly.

"You will have enough dissent from the Grand Clerics, as it is."

"This is also true."

Justinia sat down in a deep armchair, and bade Leliana sit at her feet. Leliana went gladly, even as she knew—this was going even more poorly than she might have imagine . This particular species of calm meant she was in for a dialogue. It would be excruciating, and then Justinia would set the conversation, and the theological point she meant to make, down for posterity, with Leliana as the unnamed student. They would then be published anonymously, and set off a round of furious debate, as all of Justinia's pamphlets did. There was no choice but to play her part; but, at the very least, Justinia's lessons had never involved murdering someone in an alleyway to make a point.

"There are—any number of specious rumors," Leliana began. "Such that even I cannot quash, without tipping my hand. A strong Right Hand, someone with whom I can work, would be an endless help."

And those were just the ones Leliana heard. Justinia's ascension had not been as smooth as it might have been, for all that she had been selected by Beatrix herself; Beatrix had been so sunk in decrepitude that she could hardly remember the Chant, let alone be aware of some Revered Mother, albeit one whose political star was rising, and was a favorite to become the next Grand Cleric of Val Chevin. Still, it was a good story, and one which Seeker Pentaghast, most intimate of Divine Beatrix's intimates to the end, had never taken it upon herself to deny it.

Never mind that, however: "You cannot work with Cassandra?" Justinia asked.

"Seeker Pentaghast has been very courteous," said Leliana.

"But she has not offered her aid."

"No."

"And when the Empress comes to kneel before me in a week, the very angle of her head will set off rumors, will it not? And what then?"

Maker, but Leliana could hardly think of what might come after that particular ceremony, so full were her hands preparing the security arrangements for it. It was Seeker Pentaghast's disinterest in the planning that had driven her here. I'm sure you have it in hand, Sister. What do you need me for? "Your Left Hand listens," Leliana said, after a moment's consideration. "And your Right Hand acts."

"Acts," said Justinia. Her hands, which had been stroking Leliana's hair, now undid her braid. "Seeker Pentaghast is very much a woman who acts. And yet she has sat through months of this ceremony and that at at our side, and never uttered a word of complaint. She has been bored to death, but it is her duty, yes?" Leliana nodded. "Bored, and in deep mourning, too. Have you noticed she wears nothing but black? Do you think she's only a plain dresser?"

"She is," Leliana said. "Have you seen her boots? I think she only owns two pairs."

"They are atrocious," Justinia agreed. "But in Nevarra, who wears black for mourning?"

It was tempting to drift off, with fingers combing her scalp gently. She had no defenses against Justinia. "I do not know," Leliana. In Orlais they wore pure white, or the palest grey.

"Sisters, for sisters. Daughters, too, for their mothers," said Justinia. "All others are permitted only dark browns and reds, but never true blacks. Of course she will criticize me. Of course she will act as though she would rather do anything in this world than serve me. I am not her Divine. Imagine—if you lost me."

I would give my life before I allowed such a thing to happen, Leliana thought, but Justinia would only scold her for saying it. "It would destroy me," she said, instead.

Justinia began braiding her hair, once more, and said, "It would not. You would endure, as Cassandra endures. But she only endures. Such loyalty to Beatrix's memory—it is a rare flower, which only blooms once."

On the day of her ascension, Most Holy had kissed Seeker Pentaghast's forehead before all the Chantry and named her Aegis of the Faith. She listened patiently to Seeker Pentaghast's assessments of the politics of more far-flung Grand Clerics, from Rivain to the Anderfels, women that Revered Mother Dorothea would have had no reason to become familiar with.

"You hope to make it bloom once more," said Leliana.

"I would not dream of it. But Cassandra requires a purpose, as you require a purpose. _You have walked beside me_ ," Justinia sang, softly, " _down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh._ "

She hit the notes well—one did not become a Revered Mother without musicality—but her voice was not half as fine as Leliana's. It was a shameful vanity, Leliana knew, as she sang along with Justinia, " _You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me._ "

"We will not abandon her in her hour of need. Go, speak to Cassandra. Learn her heart, as I have learned it."

*

In the Grand Cathedral, someone was always singing the Chant.

It took two weeks, start to finish. It was known that anyone who knew the verses might join in—and there were pamphlets, to guide those who faltered—and while there were for ever crowds of worshippers, they came to gawk at the veined marble columns and the gilded ceilings in the _sanctuaire_ , and only rarely to sing. Leliana had taken her turn, in the first month after Most Holy's ascension, and found it dull work. The singers today had made it to the interminable great battles between Andraste's armies and the magisters, and were off-key.

Seeker Pentaghast sat on a pew at the very center of the room, where no one might bother her, speaking to a very tall, very young man, with smooth black skin, beautiful, like a statue, who looked as though he could have been from anywhere from Wycome to Dairsmuid. She seemed relaxed, skeptical, as he gesticulated at her.

Most Holy's charge did not sit easily on Leliana's shoulders. The Seeker had a healthy dislike of bards, and a healthier dislike of anyone she sensed was trying to curry her favor. She was known to be indifferent to servants, wealth, and the nobility, both in Orlais and in Nevarra; her theological views were very moderate; and she knew the Chant as thoroughly as a templar recruit, but sang badly, by all accounts. _Like a cat in a bag,_ Sister, Charter had said, back in Valence, when she gave her report. _Wet cat. Little bag._

It was five days, now, until the ceremony where Empress Celene reaffirmed Orlais's ancestral fealty to the Chantry, and her submission to Most Holy in all spiritual matters. There was the matter of which companies of chevaliers had precedence in the guarding, and the Knights-Divine were mumbling about their having the ultimate right, as templars were inclined to go on and on about having the right; and here Seeker Pentaghast was, having a tete-a-tete with someone, rather than breaking heads and keeping order, as the Right Hand had ought to do. It was not that she was negligent—she showed up at every meeting between Michel de Chevin and the Knights-Divine, and spoke sharply whenever they stepped out of line, but the burden of planning fell on Leliana's shoulders.

As Leliana approached, Seeker Pentaghast gave a short, firm shake of her head, and the boy stopped speaking. "Leave us," she said to him, and he rushed off.

"An admirer?" Leliana asked, settling in next to her.

"His name is Daniel," said Seeker Pentaghast, her mouth creased into a frown. Her face was as classically Nevarran as it was possible to be: straight noses and chiseled jaws lent themselves exquisitely to disapproval. "He wishes to be my apprentice."

"I take it you won't have him?"

"I would make a poor teacher. What do you need of me?"

What _did_ Leliana need of Seeker Pentaghast—a conversation that lasted more than twenty seconds, for a start. For her to take on a fair share of the work of arranging the security for Celene's visit, and for her to make a mystical transformation into someone Leliana could work with, rather than around. Failing the latter two, she would start with the former. "I spoke to Most Holy of your request to leave her service and return to the Seekers of Truth," she began.

"And you did not find her receptive," Seeker Pentaghast cut in, before Leliana could go too far. "Where the Maker calls me to serve, I will go. If I am to remain bound to the Sunburst Throne, so be it."

"'Bound!'" Leliana said. "You make it sound like a punishment. Most Holy only wishes to carry on Divine Beatrix's legacy—"

"Bullshit. I am to be a symbol of continuity."

Leliana found herself letting out a surprised laugh. Seeker Pentaghast's frown only deepened in response, as Leliana watched her attempt to work out whether Leliana was laughing at her, or at what she'd said. "Yes, and your presence at her side will lend her reign legitimacy," said Leliana.

At the front of the room, a pair of sisters re-lit the holy flame, and the tune of the Chant changed.

"I know where—where all of the bodies are buried," Seeker Pentaghast said. "A sheltered Grand Cleric with her eyes only on the Maker would not think of this, but Most Holy was a bard, and would rather keep someone as dangerous as the Right Hand close to her side. Am I correct?"

"You're very direct," Leliana replied, rather than confirm or deny anything. Justinia had buried her past deep, and in the last months of Beatrix's life, Leliana had seen to it that what loose ends remained were tied up, very neatly, and in many cases attached to rocks and deposited at the bottom of the Waking Sea. All that was left were rumors of a worldly past.

Seeker Pentaghast shrugged, and brushed a bit of hair away from her face. Perhaps this was another Nevarran mourning custom: growing one's hair out, so that it looked like a ragged mop, barely confined in the back by a tie. "I have lived in Orlais a long time," she sighed. "I am too brash for your ridiculous Game, and I will not play it."

No one could simply refuse to play the game. Even the Chantry in Orlais was not exempt from the slow, slow jockeying for precedence. "If we present a united front to Most Holy, perhaps we can convince her to—"

"I never said I did not wish to serve." There was, for the first time since their conversation had begun, a slight fraying in Seeker Pentaghast's voice, a ragged edge. "You mistake me. This always happens. Dorothea—I do not care about her past—she was the best of all possible choices. Elthina is a sniveling coward with no politics to speak of, who could never stand up to Celene's will. Iona is a frivolous child, who wants only the vestments and the power, not the responsibility of leading the whole of the faith. Most Holy is a good woman. I have not met many in my life."

With that little speech—the most words she had ever said to Leliana at one time—she looked embarrassed, and turned her gaze out at the crowd of pilgrims moving through the Chantry. They were from the Anderfels, from their dress, and wide eyed, to a woman, ushered along by the lay sister they must have contracted to guide them. It was entirely likely this was their first visit to a city. Leliana's sympathized. Val Royeaux—when she was young, visiting for the first time from with Marjolaine, she had thought it the glory of glories, the crown of the world.

"A good woman," Leliana repeated, pulling herself back to the present.

"I went to Valence to see her give a sermon, once."

"What did she speak on, that touched you so?"

"You are trying to draw me out," Seeker Pentaghast said. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Sister."

"I only want to know your—heart," said Leliana, "if we are to work together."

Seeker Pentaghast made a hideous noise in the back of her throat. "You would rather Most Holy replaced me with someone you can bend more easily to your will," she said. "I am high-handed and difficult to like. I don't doubt you could oust me, if you wished."

"We owe it to Most Holy to make an attempt at getting on," Leliana said, more vehemently than she meant. "You are the one who will not lift a finger to help with Celene's visit. Ser Michel and Ser Cosette nearly come to blows every time I sit them across the table from another."

"The Knights-Divine will not respect you if you fall back on me at their first sign of recalcitrance," Seeker Pentaghast said. "Knight-Enchanter Cosette, especially. Have you been pouting because I will not do you work for you? Deal with them yourself, Sister. Is that all this was about?"

No one had spoken to Leliana this way in years. She ran cold—she knew this. Without years of being a cloistered sister, having spent her time in contemplation of the Maker's Word, without Justinia's long influence, undoing the damage Marjolaine had done to her, she would not shout and come to blows, now, in the middle of of the _sanctuaire_ ; she would return to her offices and raze the earth. But Most Holy wished to keep Seeker Pentaghast at her side. Most Holy's will was the will of Andraste made flesh, now, and it was Leliana's duty to carry it out.

"No, it was not," Leliana said, after a moment to gather herself. "We are both difficult to like, as you said. High-handed. We will need to work together for years. I am not so foolish as to throw away all hope of our working well together. If you wish to be intolerably rude to me, I have no choice but to deal graciously with you."

Seeker Pentaghast's dark, thick eyebrows rose in surprise. "Maker, I've put my foot in it," she said, more to herself than to Leliana. "Again. This always happens. I know you must be—unsure, no matter how adept you think you are at the Game."

She had the grace to look embarrassed, which was more than Leliana had expected from her. It was... sweet. It softened the hardest lines of her face.

"Let us pretend," Leliana said, "that this never happened."

"Yes."

It occurred to Leliana, then, that they had never spoken outside the Grand Cathedral. It occurred to her, also, that she had things to take care of, tomorrow, which would not be hindered by having someone strong, menacing, and well-armed at her side. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to the Summer Bazaar tomorrow," she said. "I have business for Most Holy, there."

Seeker Pentaghast nodded stiffly. From the corners of her eyes, Leliana saw sisters and Revered Mothers watching them, waiting to see whether there were any signs of dissension, of tension, and so Leliana leaned in to press her lips to Seeker Pentaghast's cheek, before she took her leave.

*

It was very late that night when Knight-Enchanter Cosette visited Leliana's offices, in the warrens beneath the Chantry. It was said that one of the Divines Hortensia had used them to house a lover, and that the second Divine Justinia had used them to house her political prisoners before having them secretly executed, but no matter. They were Leliana's, now. They were not cramped, or she would not have used them; she had come out of the Deep Roads with an enduring horror of tunnels.

"We have thought on your words," Cosette said, standing in Leliana's doorway, stiff as a board. She did not look pleased. It was impossible to tell whether she spoke for herself or the Knights-Divine. One allowed mages, especially powerful mages, their quirks. "We have thought on them a great deal."

"And your conclusion, Commander?" Leliana asked. All Knight-Enchanters were entitled to the rank; the magics they wielded placed them outside of, and well above, the hierarchy of templars, and made the eldest of them—and they lived very, very long—not entirely human, at their very best. It was best not to upset one without need.

"We are prepared to allow the Empress's guard precedence this time," she said. "So long as they are prepared to cede precedence to us during the Summerday celebrations."

"What a miraculous change of heart!" said Leliana. "I am sure Ser Michel will find this excessively reasonable."

Cosette sniffed. "As you say, Sister. We serve the will of Andraste. We will see you at the meeting with Ser Michel in two days. And Seeker Pentaghast, too."

*

The banners overhanging the Summer Bazaar were red, white, and gold, for the ascension of Divine Justinia; it had rained three days ago, and they hung wetly from their holders, dripping on passers-by. This did not diminish Leliana's enjoyment one bit. Val Royeaux was as filthy as Denerim, where the eyes of the powerful did not gaze, but where they did, it gleamed, it was elegant, a fine lady—

"Sister," Seeker Pentaghast said, behind her.

"Seeker," Leliana replied. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I was waylaid."

No other explanation. Very well. Plainclothes, for Seeker Pentaghast, was trousers, those hideous boots, a breastplate without insignia, a sword with a plain hilt, and a battered brown coat that neither hid the breadth of her shoulders nor drew attention to them. It was not trying to achieve an effect. It simply was. If Leliana had her way—but she did not. She had come here today to know Seeker Pentaghast better, and to show her what it was she did, in the shadows, and to find some way to thank her for whatever she'd done with Knight-Enchanter Cosette, not to take an excessive interest in her clothing

"You were a lay sister," Seeker Pentaghast said, as they walked, gesturing to Leliana's own clothes. In Chantry robes, with her hair covered, Leliana could be near-anonymous. "In Lothering, they say? Were you very near Denerim?"

"Far, far, south, and one of the first towns to be destroyed by darkspawn," Leliana replied, marking the crowd as they walked. It was mid-afternoon, which was a fashionable time to be seen strolling and spending money. "I joined the Hero of Fereldan early in her quest, if that is what you wish to ask. Yes, she was an elf, and a mage; yes, I still exchange letters with her; yes, it is true, what they say of her and the Crow; yes, the Archdemon was dreadful."

"Ah—the Crow," Seeker Pentaghast said. "I suppose he was very handsome, to seize her affections, so. I have heard the songs."

Half of which Leliana had composed herself, upon her return to Orlais. Through them, she had spoken all she cared to on that time. She turned their conversation to the people strolling around them. There was indolent young Cyril de Montfort, waiting to inherit his father's seat on the Council of Heralds, making a fool of himself chasing after some young man or another. The Duchesse de Ghislain and her latest paramour were laughing a stallkeeper's joke. A new bookshop, seated on a prominent corner, was run by the daughter of a house too far impoverished to afford to lease premises in the Bazaar.

"This is just gossip," said Seeker Pentaghast, at last. "But I suppose you will tell me it is all of deep significance, and I do not have the connections to see it."

"Essentially," Leliana replied, and gradually began steering them up the stairs, to a shoe shop she favored. As they crested them, she saw a messenger laden high with parcels, from the corner of her high, but did not react quickly enough to keep the girl from crashing into her. Ah—but this particular messenger had crashed into her before. She was an elf, no older than fifteen, with long, feathery, unkempt blonde hair, and a fringe that looked different every time Leliana saw her.

"Apologies, milady," the girl said, in a heavy Fereldan accent, dropping to her knees to gather the packages she'd dropped. "Apologies, mi-other-lady."

It was Cassandra who bent down to help the girl gather them up, and the girl nearly dropped what she had picked up, in her haste to stare at Cassandra's bottom. She noticed Leliana watching, and gave her a cheeky wink. She could have had no idea who either of them were. When the parcels were gathered, the girl bowed as best she could, and was on her way.

"Ah," said Cassandra, once the girl was out of sight, "she forgot one. Did you recognize the livery on her uniform? Perhaps we can have it returned to the company, so that she doesn't get sacked. She is very young, to be working."

A bright red envelope lay on the ground between them.

"She forgot nothing," Leliana said, and picked the envelope up and tucked it into a pocket in her robes.

Cassandra set off, unaware of the trap that waited for her at the end of this level of the bazaar. She would get a new pair of boots if Leliana had to wrestle them onto her feet with her bare hands. "Is that what you call a dead drop?" Cassandra asked. "I have read of them in—ah—novels. I did not think they involved so much _dropping_. Your agents are very colorful, from what I have seen."

"She was not one of my agents," Leliana clarified.

Months before their move to Val Royeaux, while the Grand Clerics were still cloistered, Leliana had come to the city to establish a persona as an itinerant Sister, come to lay down her burdens for a time in a poor, dockside Chantry—

"Then who was she?" asked Cassandra.

—a confessor; a minder of children, while their mothers worked their fingers to the bones on the wharf; a giver of lessons to bright young girls who dreamed of improving their lots in life by becoming Sisters—

"There is an organization," Leliana said, "which, we will say, is willing to give one actionable information, in even exchange for certain favors done, which might lead to the timely humiliation of nobles."

—and a Friend, to the many Friends to be made in Val Royeaux.

"You consort with Red Jennies," said Cassandra.

"In short," Leliana said. "Yes."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow in distaste. "They are disreputable pranksters."

And there was the blindness of one born to wealth and power. She could not see the invisible structure that underpinned the wealth, the groaning backs upon which her comforts rested. Boots forgotten, Leliana led Cassandra to the edge of the balcony, to look down at the masses of people teeming through the market. "Do you know how many angry servants there are in Val Royeaux alone?" she asked.

"I could not imagine," Cassandra said.

"You do not think of them," Leliana replied. What would she say—if Leliana told her she was the bastard daughter of a Fereldan scullery girl, got on her mother by an Orlesian guardsman, or clerk, or whomever she had consorted with before Lady Cecilie had left Denerim? Here was an old rage, long-buried. Marjolaine had forced her to bury it, to turn it into ice within her. It was necessary, for dealing with nobles—a calm countenance, which would not betray one's origins by excessive sympathy or excessive disdain.

But Marjolaine was dead; Leliana had put an arrow through her throat, and been glad of it. She did not need to control herself: "You do not think of the people who light your fires in the morning, or wash your clothing. Have you ever spared a moment's thought for the woman who makes your bread in the morning? The woman who slaughters and butchers the hogs, for your sausages?"

"I know they are there." Cassandra sounded uncomfortable, but not defensive. Then, without preamble, she sighed, and said, "I have done it again, haven't I? I can only imagine how many there are, and ruled by cruel masters, too. You would be remiss in your duties to not use such a resource, if it was laid at your feet. The Left Hand I am used to never would have, but—she had fewer enemies arrayed against her."

Because the evidence of Beatrix having named Most Holy her successor was spurious. Because Most Holy had not been given to the Chantry at birth. Because she had walked among the unwashed masses, the lowest of the low, and chosen to _give_ herself in service, and this somehow made her unworthy to lead them. It was the first time Cassandra had ever referred to it.

"You're right, of course," Leliana said. "Come, let us open the letter in private."

Forty-five minutes later, they left the shoe shop with an order for a new pair of boots (the Right Hand of the Divine would not wear ready-made on Leliana's watch), and the letter still unopened. Despite the ambush, Cassandra seemed in good spirits, and asked, "What do you think it says?"

Leliana pulled it from her robes, as they walked. "It could be anything. A drawing of a flying cock, or the location of papers proving that half the Council of Heralds is selling slaves to Tevinter."

"I thought you said they gave you good information."

"Often enough that I don't discount them entirely, yes. Besides, the drawings are charming." This was likely to be good: the last bit she'd dropped for them at the Chantry had been the codes to a baroness's safe, and news had spread a week later that the woman had been cleaned out, and was destitute. Leliana unfolded the letter.

_Mother Whosits by the river's been leaving her back door open for the red-haired one and Lady S._

Cassandra read it, too. "And look, a pair of breasts," she said. "'Leaving her back door open'—affairs?"

"I will have it looked into," said Leliana, tucking the letter away.

"And then?"

"What do you mean?"

"How will you deal with it?"

"I said: I will investigate her," Leliana said. "Would you have her disciplined?"

"She made a vow," Cassandra said sharply. "To Andraste and the Maker."

"Suppose she truly loves one of them, or both—what then?"

Momentarily, Cassandra looked uncomfortable. It was known that she kept a lover, the mage who had saved Beatrix's life at her side, and that they were utterly devoted to one another, and had a home in Val Royeaux for those times when they were in the city together. He had moved from the White Spire, which loomed over the whole of Val Royeaux, to the circle at Montsimmard, but he traveled broadly and often.

"I suppose, then..." Cassandra trailed off, at the sight of something behind Leliana. " _That_ is one of your agents, is it not?"

Leliana turned to look. Charter was barrelling at them across the square, as best she could, through the throng. People were not inclined to step of the way of an elf, let alone one dressed as a servant. Cassandra sighed and walked through the crowd, which parted like sand before her, and took Charter by the elbow.

Message for you, ser," Charter said, panting, and shoved a piece of paper in to Leliana's hand. "Urgent. She wants to meet, in person, tonight."

A gold-lined envelope, strong, assertive handwriting. "I have business, tonight," said Leliana. "Whoever she is will have to wait."

Charter cleared her throat. She tried so hard to be respectful, though Leliana wished she wouldn't. It was residual embarrassment, she supposed: Leliana had caught her spying on the Chantry in Valence, released her, then employed her when word had gotten out that 'the Black Hart' was looking for a steady employer. "Read the note first. Ser," she said, after an uncomfortable pause.

And so Leliana opened it. Skimmed it, then read it in full, more carefully, to be sure some demon wasn't playing tricks on her. This was the last person Leliana would have expected to contact her, let alone with information. "Dispose of this, Charter. Permanently." Charter nodded and took the note, and stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Cassandra only raised that eyebrow and waited for one of them to explain what _spy bullshit_ was going on.

"It seems I have an appointment tonight," Leliana said. "Tell me, Seeker Pentaghast: have you ever been to the Proving?"

*

"I never thanked you, today," Leliana said, that evening, as they walked the crowded, bright streets that surrounded the tavern district. It was alive with people: gamblers running games of dice on the sidewalk, singers warbling for their suppers, raucous groups of drunks going from pub to pub, storefronts still open for business, despite the lateness of the hour. The City Guard was conspicuous by its absence.

"For?" Cassandra asked.

"Cosette."

"Commander Cosette has been mad for years," said Cassandra, "but she is not unreasonable. She becomes even more reasonable when she's sparred with someone she will not kill immediately. It was nothing."

"I would've paid to see that," Charter said, between them.

The night was crisp. Leliana was exceptionally tall, and Seeker Pentaghast had the look of a woman who had lived the better part of her life in plate mail, and so three of them made their way unmolested. Autumn had been flirting with Val Royeaux for a full week, and the skies were clear, and the moon was full, and it was well before the part of the night where people vomited into the gutters.

As riverside taverns in Val Royeaux went, The Proving wasn't the worst of the lot; it was run by a pair of dwarves, who may have been sisters or may have been married, and hosted prize bouts, from which it got its name. The city guard had not caught them out yet, and Leliana had no incentive to report them: she did not enjoy watching the fights, but the commotion—and a handsomely appointed back room, and a tunnel from the cellar that let out two streets over, and the willingness of the owners to accept reasonable bribes for their silence—made it ideal for clandestine meetings.

Charter, while she shared Leliana's professional appreciation of The Proving, enjoyed the fights very much. She sat comfortably on the stool next to their reluctant companion, making commentary on the night’s bout that Cassandra tolerated, rather than enjoyed. 

"Your contact," Cassandra said. "When might we expect her?"

"Maker," Charter said, "not so loud."

"Why not? Half the criminals in Val Royeaux are here for the fights," Seeker Pentaghast replied. "Surely, three more people on questionable business will not be remarked upon."

The bartender, who was refreshing Charter's drink as Cassandra spoke, became magnificently deaf. Leliana did not have the heart to tell her that if she thought the crowd tonight was so much as half of Val Royeaux's criminal element, she vastly underestimated the amount of crime in the capital. "She will be here in time," Leliana said, rather than shatter her illusions. "Do enjoy the fight. Have an ale—they brew it themselves."

"In the basement," Charter said. "In vats the size of the empress's bathtub. From Maker-knows-what."

"It's marvelous."

"Don't listen to her. Last time Nightingale drank it, they had to fish her out of a gutter in Jader," said Charter, "a week later."

"Such stories you tell," Leliana said, and waved the barkeep away when she offered her a drink. The story wasn't untrue, but it had happened a long time ago. She had not imbibed since she'd joined Dorothea's—Divine Justinia's—service. Charter had ordered some purportedly elven spirit, and Cassandra had two fingers of Nevarran whiskey in her glass, which she had hardly touched.

The fight in the center of the room was between someone claiming to be a Silent Sister, direct from Orzammar. Close examination would surely reveal that she still had her tongue, but the act was what mattered. Her challenger was a younger woman claiming to be a chevalier, which was likely true, because the poor girl had a brilliant right hook, but seemed to have some unfortunate notions about fair play in the ring. The Silent Sister, though she lacked the chevalier's height and reach, had the advantage, then—or so Charter explained, as they waited.

"The chevalier will win," Cassandra interrupted, and took another small sip.

It was, Leliana noted, the first time she had so much as spoken sharply to Charter, who was omnipresent at Leliana's side. She did not seem to have any unfortunate prejudices about elves. Otherwise, she spoke little. Perhaps she was simply tired, or perhaps she was made uncomfortable by the rough company. Charter was known to the city's Carta, and dwarves pulled her aside between rounds of the fight to discuss this matter or that. Perhaps Beatrix had had more godly things on her mind than the practicalities of managing the Chantry's lyrium needs, which Orzammar could not fill in its entirety, and Cassandra had simply never thought of it. Charter was too gleeful, however. She had always derived a certain—highly professional—satisfaction from making nobles uncomfortable.

As the bell rang for the fourth round of the fight, a short woman, dressed in a deep grey cloak that shadowed her face entirely, stepped over the threshold into the tavern. The cloak was plain, but the fabric was too fine for this part of town. Had she come without protection?Anyone looking for an easy mark had found one, in her. Leliana would need to send Charter to tail her home, then.

"Our mutual friend is here," Leliana said. "I'll need a distraction. Charter—"

But Seeker Pentaghast stood, downed the rest of her whiskey, removed her coat, and her sword-belt, and dropped them into Charter's arms. Her figure, however fine, was not sufficient to stop a room in its tracks, though a few young women murmured among themselves at the sight of her. In the center of the room, the chevalier laid the Silent Sister flat, and Cassandra leaned down to whisper a few words into the fight's crier's ear.

"We have a contender!" the crier said, pulling Cassandra into the ring. "Can our valiant chevalier slay this Nevarran dragon? Or will the fires of"—and so on, and so forth, this would go on for the next few minutes, as the odds-makers, all of them crooked, scrambled to collect bets. As distractions went, it would serve, though Cassandra would surely be recognized.

Leliana's contact spotted her (it was not difficult. Leliana stood head and shoulders above most of the tavern's clientele), made her way over to their spot at the bar, and pulled back her hood. Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, an acquaintance of long standing, and the only person to ever turn down Leliana's offer of advancement, if only she would pass along a few tips, there and here, about her country's merchant princes. Her king was a useless figurehead, but half of Orlais was indebted to some Antivan bank or another. It would have been very useful.

But the ambassador was incorruptible, above reproach and without blemish. If she risked her reputation to be seen meeting with Sister Nightingale now, so soon after Divine Justinia's ascension, there was a problem that very much needed Leliana's attention. Fortunately, the beginning of Cassandra's bout was far more interesting than the arrival of one small Antivan. Charter , having passed Cassandra's sword and coat to the bartener,watched their backs, as Leliana ushered Josephine into the back room.

"You were foolish to come here on your own, my lady," Leliana began. "You _didn't_ come here on your own, did you?"

"Never mind that," Josephine said, and reached into her cloak. She pulled out a stack of papers, bound with a thick golden thread. "These, ah, came into my possession recently. I thought they might be interesting to you."

Leliana broke the thread and rifled through the papers. Letters, in and out of their envelopes, between clerics in Antiva City and clerics in—Ansburg. Starkhaven. Markham. Even one from Kirkwall. Outside of the room, the crowd shouted and groaned as one body. She did not have time to read them, now.

"May I suppose these fell from the back of a wagon?" Leliana said.

"You may suppose anything you like," Josephine replied, tight-lipped. "As I said, Sister, perhaps you'll find them useful."

Ah, well. Leliana had always liked Josephine far more than Josephine liked her. They would never be friends, but at the very least, they might become more cordial. There was a party at the Fereldan consulate that promised to be unusually stuffy coming up in two months; their paths would cross there. She would make sure of it. "Please, allow my agent to escort you back to your embassy," she said, motioning to Charter, who bowed politely. "You'll be in capable hands."

Josephine's smile was gracious, and Charter led her off to the tunnel in the basement, but not before making Leliana promise to tell her how Seeker Pentaghast's bout went.

Quite well, as it turned out.

As Leliana left the back room, tucking her the letters into her cloak pocket, there was a great crashing noise, followed by hoots from the crowd: the chevalier had broken a barstool over Cassandra's head, which set her to staggering. Leliana loved her own neck far too much to fight at close-quarters any more often than she had to, but even she could tell that the stagger was feigned; the chevalier, overeager, badly bruised and limping, dove to finish her, left her right side exposed, and went down like a sack of turnips.

Cassandra stood in the center of the ring, her chest heaving. The room howled as one body, but she had her head bowed, as though in silent prayer. She helped the poor chevalier to her feet, accepted a towel with which to wipe the sweat from her brow from the crier, then shouldered her way through the crowd, and out of the tavern, into the night.

It fell to Leliana to collect Cassandra's things from the barkeep. When she left the tavern, after fending off the crier, who demanded to know who the mysterious sensation was, Cassandra was nowhere to be seen. _I've misplaced her_ , Leliana thought. _Justinia will never forgive me._

Walking alone and carrying a sword was as good as an invitation to be attacked in this part of town, and she did not have the faintest idea what to do with the one she was holding. There was a lone figure on a bridge, standing in the very center, gazing out into the water. Who might have thought that Cassandra was the brooding type? The plaque on the bridge read _Pont Faustine II_ , and she mounted it, moving carefully toward Cassandra.

"I take it you don't want to go another round," Leliana said.

Cassandra wiped a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth, then wiped her hand on her trousers. "I hope it served. I have no flair for drama."

"I would never have known."

Sarcasm was not lost on Seeker Pentaghast, Leliana had learned, but it was more likely to be ignored than not. This was not the deterrent that the Seeker might have liked it to be.

"It was _nothing_. I have the advantage of training," Cassandra said, "and fifteen years of upstart, show-off infant templars wishing to fight me. A fist is a far better tool for demonstration than a sword, I have found. Now do you see why I don't wish to teach? Because I think things like—that."

The fight had unraveled something in her. Her hand bit into the rough stone of the bridge, turning the tips of her fingers white in the faint lamplight; Leliana made no move to comfort her.

"I can't imagine you'd know until you tried," she said. tossing a copper from her pocket into the river. Cassandra's eyes followed its arc. "But, somehow, I don't think this is about that young man."

There was a hush between them. A group of revelers passed behind them, headed back to the merchants' sections of town, stinking like wine.

"Divine Beatrix did not like it when I brawled," Cassandra said, softly, more to the water than to Leliana. Leliana kept quiet. "I was not forbidden from it, but she disapproved. 'Just because they call you my thug does not mean you must act like one.' Most Holy, you see—she was everything that Justinia is not. A scholar, not an orator. Justinia at her most tame is a firebrand, compared to Beatrix at her most furious. But she did love me."

"And then?" Leliana asked. A stab in the dark.

"She forgot me. She forgot everyone. We kept it secret as long as we could, but when she fell asleep—you are keeping track of this, are you not? To know my heart?" Cassandra's eyes were narrow and suspicious.

"If you don't wish to speak of it, we needn't," said Leliana. She clearly wished to speak of it. Whatever they had taught her in the Seekers, it was not how to deal with her emotions. "I want to work with you, not dissect you. But I had a mentor, too, once. I loved her, and I lost her." They'd tried to kill one another again and again, and finally Leliana had been the one to succeed, but it was not a _lie_ , per se. "If you _do_ wish to talk, well—I live in your basement. It's very convenient."

This elicited a reluctant smile from Cassandra., and, without another word, they set out for the Grand Cathedral.

*

.

The chevaliers were fashionably late. Leliana returned to the garden. .Commander Cosette sat there, in conference with a fantastically dressed Rivaini woman wearing the silver-and-white of—House Ghislain?— Leliana had no head for the colors of houses. Some representative from the Council of Heralds, perhaps.

"You're early," Cassandra said, from a bench tucked in the shade of a flowering tree.

"Celene's people are late."

Something seemed to have unfurled in Cassandra since the night before—or perhaps it was the garden. There was a bit of bruising about her jaw that no one in Thedas would be brave enough to comment on. "One of them is here already." Cassandra nodded toward Commander Cosette and her companion. "The matter is settled. All that is left is listening to them posture themselves to exhaustion. I can't think of anything more dull."

"But you're here," Leliana said.

"Well," Cassandra replied, "if you go to such lengths to work with me, I can do no less for you."

She stood, and looked awkwardly over her shoulder, then nodded toward the garden. Leliana walked a pace behind her as they took their turn, inspecting the new fruit trees, the rows of carrots and potatoes. The flowerbeds were being uprooted wholesale, to be be replanted on greens throughout the city as Beatrix's final gift.

And the rosebushes. Leliana had not paid them much mind, beyond asking Most Holy why they could not simply be donated like the rest of them. Most Holy had given one of her more enigmatic looks, and changed the subject. Cassandra frowned deeply at the sight of them. "Black spots. Who do you have taking care of these, Sister? Maker, they are a disaster." She pulled a small, sharp pair of scissors from her pocket and began cutting away leaves on the bush nearest her.

"They have been watered," Leliana said.

"They have been watered _incorrectly_."

"How can you tell?"

"The black spots will not develop if you do not water from a great height," Cassandra snapped. "No one has cleared the leaf litter from beneath these roses, either, or pruned them. Not properly "

"May I help?" Leliana asked, drawing up to Cassandra's side. "Leave your instructions, and I will pass them on to the sisters."

"I know nothing of gardening," Cassandra said. She had crouched down in the dirt to examine a small bush with tiny pink flowers, and her ears were a charming shade of red. "I—I will need to ask Galyan."

Leliana took a seat on the grass next to her. She was Left Hand. Nothing she did could be undignified. "Lying is my profession, not yours," she said. "It is a bit late in your life to change trades. I wouldn't recommend it."

"Do not mock me," said Cassandra. "Beatrix cared for these roses as though they were her children, and then I cared for them when she could not. I still have all of her books, and her notes. They are...."

"Precious?"

It was as though Leliana had not spoken. "At her worst." Cassandra stopped. She closed her eyes. "I could have her brought out here. She could not speak. She did not know who I was, or where she was, or that she was the voice of the Maker in this world. I could put one of her flowers in her hand, and she would hold it as I read her the Chant. It was enough." Cassandra's eyes fluttered open. "Will that do for a disclosure? That is what you wanted, will you stop hounding me—"

"You've played into my hands," said Leliana. She could not imagine—if it happened to Most Holy. She could not imagine that she would have the strength to watch. "What a villain I am."

She reached out, cautiously, to put a hand on Cassandra's shoulder, and squeezed. "I can meet with the chevaliers myself," said Leliana. "You have done enough. Stay here, if you wish." 

She did not wait to hear Cassandra's response. She stood, and walked to Cosette and her guest, and the arriving chevaliers, and Cassandra was not at her side. And she did not mind.


End file.
